Alessa and Holmes
by Diana Kay Warry
Summary: During one of the biggest snow storms London has seen in the past ten years, a young autistic woman visits the equally strange, world famous detective Sherlock Holmes. This woman, who carries a sad and intriguing past, manages to make a connection with Holmes-and perhaps finds a chance for freedom with his, Watson's, and Mrs. Hudson's help. Sherlock/OC
1. Chapter 1

Alessa and Holmes:

A Story in Four Acts

Act One

Brown hair like warm hot chocolate. Emerald eyes like ice capped ivy. Pale skin like London's snow. If there was a recipe by God for a child born on a December day this would be it. This would be the recipe for Alessa Ellsworth of the prominent Ellsworth family of London. Her father Roger Ellsworth was a CEO in a major software company. Her mother, Eva Ellsworth, was a socialite who married Roger at twenty and never had to work a day in her life. Alessa would come to hate her mother because of this, because of her disconnect with the average world around her. Not everyone married their wealthy true love at twenty. Not everyone had never had to deal with the negative actions that live could bring. Not everyone would be clueless, without compassion, if they were to give birth to a child with special needs.

Sadly, Alessa wasn't the child of 'not everyone'. She was the child of Eva and Roger Ellsworth, and she was autistic.

Twenty-year-old Alessa thought of this as she stared out the window of her bedroom in the Ellsworth penthouse. The day was December 13th and the hired help had gone home for the day. Even though they could afford more people, Jill and Lucas (the all-purpose maid and butler) were the only souls employed to work for the Ellsworth family. For that Alessa was thankful. They had been the ones to help her with homework and to work with her on her 'at home' therapy. Countless hours had been spent at the kitchen island doing these tasks, out of sight from Eva and Roger, who had a habit of frequenting the office and bedroom…the two places Alessa was told she was not allowed.

"Children are better off seen and not heard," Eva's mother had once said over the phone to friend, "but with Alessa's condition if we can do both, we will. The doctors have told us Alessa will not be one for company. The only thing we can do is to make such a difficulty easier for her."

And perhaps that would've been the case if Jill and Lucas had not been around to support her, and fuel her with the determination for change. Perhaps she would've missed the yearning for people, had she not become an avid reader…and found that reading for her came easier than most children. In first grade she had found that words and letters made sense to her, as though they always had. She was reading sixth grade chapter books by the time she was five, and soon surpassed those. She was allowed to take higher level classes, and as her reading improved, she discovered the depth of the characters within the story…she could understand human emotion through word. Not instinctively could she connect with another soul, but literature made such emotion logical, relatable. Through reading and the characters Alessa found within she discovered her own emotions and human spirit.

That is how she found joy, happiness, anger, sadness, which expanded to compassion, confusion-and loneliness.

Lonely. Her most common emotion. For when she wasn't reading or with Jill and Lucas she was definitely alone. After all, Alessa may have been quiet and unsure about societal rules, but she had been an observant child and teen…observant enough to realize her parents didn't spend as much time with her as other parents with daughters did. She saw they didn't have dinner with her, or go shopping with her. She found herself wondering if they even loved her.

The pain was difficult. Emotions were like a different culture with her. How do you treat such a thing such as feeling? Do you give it respect and tune in to what they could be saying? Do you runaway with uncertainty? Do you try to mask them and pretend they aren't there? Do you become the dictator of your soul, and try to kill them? Alessa didn't know. She wondered if she ever would.

She couldn't understand that the pain on her face didn't show. She didn't know that her facial expressions had to be a bit forced since they didn't come naturally. She knew she had autism, and there was a disconnect between her and others. But how to remedy this disconnect? Yes, she had been in social therapy and through that learned to cope with the world. Yet Alessa was still awkward with conversation and the search for companionship. She was too blunt, or brought up topics that 'simply weren't talked about'. Also she could be too logical…a gap for making connection.

"No one else is like you!" Her mother had yelled at her one night. "Why can't you tell me what's going on in your head? Why can't you love us like normal children love their parent?! If I had a normal daughter who I could have dreams for...God if only you hadn't been the only one before the accident!"

_The_ _accident_. Yes, Alessa knew about the accident. To her the accident was proof that her family was just like everyone else when it came to the rules of the world. It didn't matter how rich or poor you were, how brilliant or dull. Life could be cruel, and take away anything it wanted if the fates allowed you.

You could be Steve Jobs and find yourself diagnosed with cancer in your glory years with only death as an outcome. You could be a banker on Wall Street in the 1920's, only to find your wealth come crashing down on an unexpected day in 1929. Or you could be Eva Ellsworth, only two years married to the wealthiest man in London, and now a new mother. And you could be driving your car and going through a green light just as a drunk driver runs his red. There's the crunch of your car that's also the crunch of your ovaries, and your chances of children are gone forever. All you are left with is a five month old little girl at home who will be the downfall of your dreams during a diagnosis at three-years-old.

Alessa knew her parents were disappointed in her. Even though she graduated from high school online at sixteen, and never been in trouble outside the home. She was stuck at the Ellsworth Estate since her parents deemed her unfit for college. She wouldn't last, they said. She doesn't know how to take care of herself. She'd never be able to hold down a job.

"I could," Alessa said to herself, "if they knew how often I sneaked out out at night to go to the library and have coffee…they'd know I could take on the world all right."

She knew what she wanted to do for a living, after all. It was the only thing she was good at and the only thing she really liked. She wanted to work with books. She wanted to be a librarian.

She knew she had to go to college, to further her education for such an endeavor. But her family didn't want her to leave the house, let alone go to university. Eva and Roger never wanted the world to know that there child was mentally handicapped.

"They'd eat you alive out there, darling," Eva laughed, when her daughter years ago told her of her dream. "Don't worry, we'll always have nice people to take care of you. Just…do what's best. And you KNOW what that is. Besides, who is successful out there who is like _you_?"

Alessa had gone into her room, not wanting to escalate things. She knew worse punishments would come, other than her mother's mocking tone. But in her head she made a list: Nikola Tesla, Albert Einstein, Temple Grandin, Vincent Van Gogh, and _him_….

In the privacy of her room on a December evening when no one was home, Alessa felt her cheeks burn at the thought of him. He was the only person who ever made her smile without her knowing, the only one who was near who was like her. He was the only relatable human being that she had a bit of understanding with.

Sherlock Holmes.

She reached up to touch her cheeks, realizing she was smiling once more. Now she had to do it. She had to…

Get off the window seat. Go to the bed. Kneel down on the right hand side of it. Lift the purple mattress skirt up. Reach forward about ten inches and grab the hatbox covered in red velvet. Take the box. Untie the black ribbon that holds the lid to it. Lift the lid. And see… her treasures.

When Alessa saw the contents of the box she let out a satisfied sigh. These were the things that gave her that mysterious, elusive feeling called hope that lit up in her chest like fire, and was a beacon for her life. The things she held in that box were more precious to her than all the banknotes in the world…than all her parents' money. Here she had news clippings of Sherlock's great work, and internet pages printed off of his history and cases he had solved. She even had obtained a book about Sherlock recently, a gift that Jill had given her, and it was his biography. She had read it twice.

The writers, who found him as merely a subject, called him the greatest detective in the world, a madman, a lunatic, a _freak of natu_re_. _Alessa smiled at that. Her father had called her that loads of times. Perhaps that was a good thing.

"Are you and I kin of the mind," she wondered aloud, "Sherlock, are you…like me?"

The oak branch outside her room tapped on her window, and Alessa was pulled from her thoughts. She sighed, packed her collection away, and sat back down on the window seat. She studied snow covered London, and minutes into her observation, it started snowing again. As it did she began to feel solitude once more.

_Why don't yo_u go _see _him_? _

The thought came out of nowhere and Alessa was taken back by it. It was a ridiculous fancy, a snippet of a dream. Going to see Sherlock Holmes. Why should she consider it?

_But _why_ not? _Her secret place that dreamed said.

Alessa thought about it, and realized, she could do it. She knew where Sherlock lived, along with his assistant, John Watson. She thought warmly about Watson. He was the reason she first discovered Sherlock Holmes. She would never forget that day.

It had been about a year and a half ago when Jill came to her in her room, laptop in hand, and open. She sat next to Alessa on the floor, who had been reading, and laid the laptop in front of her.

"I was reading about this fellow, Alessa," she had said, "and he reminds me a lot of you. He's a detective who's very famous right now in London, and this man goes with him on his assignments. He's not even a detective really, he's more like a 'consulting' detective, whatever that means. Also, he uses this 'science of deduction' to solve his cases. It's really quite fascinating! But he isn't really a people person like yourself, and he's very, very brilliant…just take a look dear."

Alessa pushed her book to the side, pulled the laptop towards her, and without a word began to read. Hours passed, and when Jill came back up to her room after her work day was over, Alessa was half way through the blogs. She asked Jill to bring the computer back tomorrow, lacking a laptop of her own. She couldn't wait though, and when her parents went to bed she crept downstairs and into the office, soon firing up the computer so she could read some news articles on this Sherlock Holmes, and his companion, John Watson. Through Watson's blogs she read of his exploits and adventures. Through Watson she came to know Sherlock.

In two months' time she felt that Watson was her friend, and that perhaps Sherlock was too, for she knew them better than she knew anyone else in her life.

So tonight, on a night of solitude and snow, it felt natural to go seek out company. It felt right to come face to face with her friend from afar. The idea, she knew logically, was reckless and stupid. But when someone like her desired something, nothing could stop the yearning of autistic obsession.

And besides, Alessa knew the address by heart: Apartment 221B Baker Street.

She took off her sweats, and slipped on black skinny jeans and a tight black sweater, emphasizing her slim frame. She put on a silver locket Jill had gotten her for her sixteenth birthday, and then she moved into the bathroom down the hall to put on some makeup. Even though she didn't care for the stuff that made her face feel thick and tacky, her mother had forced her hand to learn the skills of camouflaging imperfection, made her use it to appear more 'acceptable' to society.

She sponged foundation on her face, making sure it blended in with her pale skin, dusted on powder, and then applied mascara and blush. She wouldn't put on anything more than that when she wasn't in the presence of her mother.

Alessa went back to her room, slipped on socks and black snow boots, and grabbed her favorite black trench coat from her closest. After seeing Sherlock in photos wearing one, she asked her parents for one for Christmas, describing the coat Sherlock had. Her mother, instead, gave her a grey trench with shiny metal buttons, which was suited more for a teenage girl, instead of crime solving. Luke and Jill understood her wish though, and pooled in what they could of their paychecks to get her one.

Knowing what Luke and Jill did to give such a gift to her made Alessa appreciate the trench even more. She took one final look in the mirror, studying her reflection. Seeing her hair was slightly messy she ran a quick brush through it, and finally grabbed her purse from the desk.

Without another thought she walked downstairs, and out of the front door of Ellsworth estate, being careful to lock the door behind her. She didn't bother to check the weather report, or do anything else of the sort. If she had, she would have realized she was leaving the house during what would be one of the biggest snow storms of the past ten years.

Sherlock Holmes sat in the small parlor of 221B Baker Street, violin in hand while he leaned back against the recliner. He was wearing his usual black dress pants and cream button down, not having yet changed from going out earlier in the day. His in-house blogger, Watson, was in the bathroom getting ready to go out.

"I will never understand the need for over abundant socializing," he sighed as Watson walked into the room, "especially on a night like this."

"It's fun Sherlock," Watson chuckled, smoothing out his black dress shirt, "some people actually believe a good party once in a while is good for a person's health. And perhaps it is."

"Or maybe you're just hoping to score with that Heather woman at this holiday party which is in twenty minutes and is five blocks away," Sherlock said.

Watson glared at him. "How did you know…oh never mind," he groaned, "I'm not going to let your humbug of a spirit stop me from enjoying myself."

"I assume you know that we're supposed to get a borderline blizzard in London tonight."

Watson shrugged, giving a rogue smile. "Then I guess it might give me an excuse to crash at Heather's tonight."

"Fine, get out of here, before every cabby in London wises up and decides to go home before the storm," Sherlock groaned. "My God you're lack of logic for the sake of _tail_ astounds me Watson."

"I'm not just seeing her for tail!"

"It's just for tail."

"Sherlock, no it's not."

He sighed, his eyes narrowing at Watson, ready to study him. His method, the science of deduction, was soon being played out. "Usually when you go on a date with a woman you genuinely like you wear that God-awful Axe cologne, which you're not this time, and you're wearing your dark wash jeans with the small hole on the back of the left side knee which means you want to look decent but you really don't want to go through the effort of cleaning your black jeans…. ."

Watson lifted his hands in surrender, and turned to leave. "Goodbye Sherlock."

Sherlock smirked. "Have a good time, Watson. Good luck on getting your tail."

"Thanks," he said flatly.

When Sherlock heard the door close he smiled, and hurried to his room to put on his shoes. Since Watson was going out on a snowy evening he could finally test the absorption rate of blood in snow when he could get a hold of some fresh flurries. Right as he was readying to slip on his shoes there was a knock at the door, and he sighed.

"Watson," he said, walking toward the door, "did you forget your flat key again…"

Right then he turned the knob, and there he saw a young woman in front of him. Before the first word was out of her mouth his observation began:

Her cheeks were red, and her hair was slightly wet with snowflakes resting in the strands. They had not quite melted yet, so she had just come in from outside. The wet hair and red cheeks told him she had been out in the weather for a while, for the redness was from irritation from the cold and wind, not by running and circulation of the blood. He looked down at her snow boots, taking note that these were not boots of fashion, so she had to have worn them to prepare to walk a long distance in the weather. They were wet, and the amount of moisture told him she had walked two miles, possibly three. She didn't wear any gloves, but they weren't red or shaking from chill, so she had to have kept them in her pockets during the entire walk, while balancing the brown purse she had carefully on her shoulder so it wouldn't slip. He looked back at her face. She was young at a first glance. He may have guessed seventeen at a distance. But no, she had the tiniest trace of a wrinkle or two about her eyes and at the left side corner of her mouth. Either she was twenty-four, or twenty with a hard life. He shifted his gaze over to her eyes, but she closed her at the exact moment he did. He went on to her ears. They were not pierced, which meant she was not fashionably inclined, but judging from the touch of makeup on her face, she could look glamorous if she wanted to. He tried looking at her eyes again. They shut immediately.

It dawned on him. _She couldn't make eye contact. _

He tried one more time. This time she gave the tiniest flinch, all though it pained or discomforted her greatly.

All this he recognized before she took a breath to say her greeting.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello," he greeted, "are you a client here with a case. I don't take clients with cases this late in the evening. I'd say come back tomorrow, but we're going to get a snow storm tonight and I doubt you could… ."

"We are?" The woman asked.

"Yes," he said, "now you should probably be off before it hits."

"No, please," she begged, "I-I'm not a client."

"Oh God you're a fan, that's worse," he groaned, "look I'm not one to entertain close friends, let alone fans, so if you could please vacate my apartment that would be most appreciated."

"No, it's not that," she said, "Please, it's not. I appreciate your work, but I'm not a fan in a traditional sense. I just had to know…I needed to know... ."

"Know _what_?"

She looked down. "I had to know if you were like me."

That response made him pause. Now that was something he hadn't expected. Things were getting interesting.

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"I...I'm autistic," she explained, "and I've read Watson's blogs, and some things you do, are like what I do. I don't understand people and how they work sometimes. I don't know some basic things either. I mean, when you said you didn't know about the sun revolving around the solar system, I remembered that after I got out of school, I forgot the multiplication tables."

He felt his stomach churn. Autistic. He hadn't heard that word associated with him for a very, very long time. Over ten years in fact.

"You know there's a storm coming, right?" He asked, realizing his stomach was tightening.

"I do now," she answered, "but I don't care."

He opened the door wider. "Come inside. What's your name?"

She smiled. "Alessa Ellsworth."

His synapses began to buzz in his mind. Ellsworth...Alessa Ellsworth. Ellsworth was the last name of Roger and Eva Ellsworth, one of the richest families in London. Twenty years ago they had a daughter, who hadn't been seen in public since she was two-years-old...the press had a field day with it. Even gave the child a nickname.

"You're the Lost Ellsworth Daughter," he stated.

She looked in his direction as he closed the door. "And now," she said, "you have found me here."


	2. Chapter 2

Act Two

Alessa stepped inside the flat, her head spinning as she looked around the entry hall and parlor. The sitting area held two cases of books, stuffed to the brim with tomes of different sorts. There was a couch, two recliners, and a wooden chair. Nearby was a desk, with papers strewn about on its surface. There was an order to all this, she could tell, but it wasn't exactly what you would call tidy.

"I have that book," she said, her eye catching on a copy of _Grey's Anatomy_.

"Ah," he said, moving a violin, _his_ violin she realized, off one of the recliners, "are you interested in anatomy then?"

"No," she answered, "I'm just an avid reader. I started to read at an early age."

"How early?"

"Four. I mean, I know that doesn't sound too early, but I was reading chapter books for sixth graders by the time I was five."

He sat down, his fingers pressed together, his chin resting upon them. "Interesting," he murmured, "have a seat."

She fell back in the chair opposite of his. "Thank you," she said, a bit uncomfortably.

"So tell me, why the trench coat," he said, jumping in, "I mean, I did take note that it is oddly a lot like mine... ."

"Yes sir, I do admit, I got it because of you," she confessed.

"Don't call me sir. Sir is for someone old, like my father or brother." He seemed to spit out the words father and brother. "No, call me Holmes or Sherlock."

"Okay Holmes. You can call me Alessa."

"Hmm...you choose to call me by my last name."

"Yes, I do. Everyone else calls you Sherlock. So I want to call you Holmes. After all, this is a different night for me, so I suppose different is going to be a theme."

"What do you mean tonight is different?"

"Well, I don't go out much," she said.

"No, I guess you haven't, considering the wide public eye hasn't seen you in almost two decades."

"That's the mystery for you," she said, "you want to know why. That's why you let me in."

He smiled. "Of course. I assume you've read my blogs, considering you admire my work enough to buy a coat that is similar to mine. I don't bother with people who bore me, Lost Daughter."

"My name is Alessa," she repeated.

"I know."

"I was making sure. I'm more than what papers call me. I didn't call you detective."

She noticed him lift the corner of his mouth, giving a slight smirk. "You're not shy. I'm surprised. Not very many with autism tend to be outspoken."

"I had teachers and people at home who taught me it is good to speak up, even if you can't understand the other person. You should at least respect them, and they should respect you."

"I appreciate that. I work with too many people who don't understand my views, take me for granted."

"I don't like some of the people at Scotland Yard either," she said, recalling his run-ins with authority in Watson's blogs, "especially Anderson. Anderson's an idiot."

Alessa watched as Holmes leaned in, his eyes sweeping up and down her frame. "Alessa," he said, "you're here to know if I'm like you?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Well, I want to know why your family has kept you hidden."

"Am I one of your cases?" She asked. "Am I a puzzle without knowing?"

He shook his head. "No. But this was looking to be a boring night, being trapped inside by a snow storm, until you showed up at my doorstep. And I would very much like to know your story."

"But...you wouldn't care about my story."

"Alessa as soon as you told me your diagnosis and who you are, I became extremely interested. I want to know why know why you're being hidden."

"It's my diagnosis."

"It's not your diagnosis. No parent would hide their child just for that. What is it you're not saying?"

She looked down. "There are some things I can't tell you."

She didn't notice, but his eyes flashed. "Why?"

"Because," she sighed, "I promised. I just...I can't, Holmes."

"Then it seems we are at a passing."

Alessa thought quietly for a minute, and then she had a thoughts.

"Shall I propose a bargain then? For I came looking for something too."

"All right. Propose."

"I've read Watson's blogs enough to know that if I were just to tell you my story you would get bored. And I want to tell you, but I can't. So, what if I told my story, left out certain parts, and you guessed?"

He nodded. "All right. And you want to know in return... ."

"If you're like me," she finished.

"Fair. Who shall go first?"

She looked down. "I will. I proposed the idea so I should."

"All right," he said, as they both got comfortable in their seats. "Shall we then?"

Alessa took a deep breath. "We shall."

"I was born twenty years ago on a December night. In fact, in a few weeks I will turn twenty-one. But that's boring to you, isn't it? You don't care about my birthday, you just want to know why I am hidden. Anyway, five months later, my mom got into a car and was in a horrible accident. Because of it, she can no longer have children."

"Hmm, the public never caught wind of that," Holmes murmured.

"I know. My father paid off a lot of journalists back then, back when around here, you could pay a journalist off with a decent amount of money. But yes, my mother was in an accident and could no longer have children. I am the first and the last Ellsworth, since I don't have any uncles. My parents hate this. They won't adopt a child, because they want a bloodline that is pure of the rich and famous, but I will not have any children of my own."

"Does that explain the scars right above the waist of your jeans?" He asked.

Alessa looked down, and saw that the fabric of her jeans and turtleneck were parted from each other just a little. She had taken off her coat, leaving the area exposed, and she could see the slight scarring on her stomach.

"Yes, it does," she sighed, "when I was thirteen my mother decided that to pass on my autism would be a great curse to our family. So, she decided to find a doctor willing to do a surgery so that it would never happen."

"You complied to this?"

Alessa shook her head. "Yes and no. I was talked into it at the time, but had I known the gravity of the choice I was making, I wouldn't have done it. After all, I was only thirteen."

"You wanted kids then."

"I don't know. But what I do know is that I wish I had the ability to choose."

He nodded. "Fair enough."

She began to pick at a loose thread at the bottom thread of her turtleneck. "It was difficult for a long time in our household after the wreck though. From what I've been told I wasn't developing normally, not hitting important milestones that I should be. I hadn't looked my mother in the eye, I wasn't crawling by two and a half, that sort of thing. So my parents took me to the top doctors and psychologists in London. That's when they figured out I had autism. Things quickly went from bad to worse. They had me go to a private school in the country for my education, and then in the evenings they would have me escorted in a company car home. I remember at school, I liked being there. People gave me attention and cared about me. At home, not so much. Our help, Luke and Jill, did the best they could to give me the attention and love my parents didn't give me. But they still had work to do, and couldn't help me out too much. I was used to seeing my parents less than four hours a week, so I would stay in my room and read books to occupy myself. It was something I could do without bothering anyone...without encoring the anger of someone if I were to bother them."

"What would they do if they were angry at you?" Holmes asked.

Alessa stopped picking at her jeans. "Yell. Punish me, like a parent would."

She glanced at his face. His brow furrowed at her. "You're_ lying_."

"No," she swore, "I'm not!"

"Alessa I consider my time quite valuable. I could be studying, working on experiments, but instead I am here listening to your story. So don't waste what I consider valuable by giving me false information."

"You said I could omit things. You said you wanted to guess why I'm hidden."

Suddenly his face relaxed, and he leaned back against the chair. "I see," he murmured to himself. "I think... ." He pulled himself out of his thoughts, and turned his attention back to her. "Alessa I will continue this guessing game, but I want to change the rules. I want you to tell me the two most significant things your parents have ever done with you."

She was puzzled by his request, trying to understand the logic in such a query, but she saw no reason to not answer him.

"Well, that seems fair," she began. "I'll start with the second most significant thing. Last year I asked for my own laptop for Christmas, and they gave me it. It was the very first time they ever gave me a thing I truly wanted, instead of just giving me junk like jewelry, the latest fashionable dresses, hair products. I mean, I had to lie about why I wanted the laptop, but at least I finally got if for what I wanted."

"What did you truly want it for?"

She felt the corners of her mouth turn up, despite the fact she was trying to keep herself objective while answering his questions. "I wanted it so I could keep up with Watson's blogs."

Realizing how awkward that sounded her smile vanished, and she tried to justify her yearning. "I just wanted to know someone like how friends and family know each other," she said. "I've been so isolated in my life I just..."

"You were lonely," Holmes concluded.

She nodded. "I was-am. I'm sorry, but I am lonely at home. Holmes I felt that I could understand you. I didn't want to feel..." She gulped trying to tame the lump in her throat. "I didn't want to feel like the only alien on the planet."

Holmes was silent for a few moments, before finally saying, "Go on with the second thing in your life."

"Okay," she said, composing herself, "the second thing is my mom teaching me to put on makeup."

She said nothing else, and there was an odd moment of stillness as he waited for her to continue. Finally he asked, "Is that it?"

She nodded. "Yes. She taught me when I was nine, so I could hide the imperfections."

He stood up excitedly, seemingly out of nowhere at her answer. "Alessa, you were _nine_?"

"Yes."

"How many times did you ever put on makeup?"

"When we went out, and it would always be late evening. I'd wear long sleeves and pants too."

In the next few moments Holmes moved carefully toward her so she could see the mechanics of each movement. He walked over toward her, softly as though not to make a sound on the floor, and then he got on his knees in front of her chair, so she was at a higher position than him.

"Alessa, is it okay if I touch your face?" He said.

She cocked her head to the side, gazing at this forehead. "Why?"

"I need to see your makeup."

"Well...okay."

He reached out to touch her right cheek, and she flinched at first with the motion of his hand. But when his fingertips were against her skin his gentle touch calmed her...and an odd warmth spread through her stomach.

He rubbed a bit of makeup onto his fingers, and then brought them away. He studied the foundation, rubbed his thumb against his index finger to feel the consistency. He even smelled the substance.

Seconds later his mouth parted and he breathed in sharply.

"This is stage makeup," he said, "your mother had you put on foundation and powder from the theatrical cosmetic company Ben Nye. I use this stuff myself. It endures well with sweat, in many types of weather, and...it can cover any blemish on the face. Even..._no_."

He bolted down the hall, and out of her sight. Alessa, sitting in her chair and feeling quite perplexed, heard the sound of running water and then the shuffle of his feet. Holmes entered the parlor once more, this time with a warm wet wash cloth in his hand.

"Alessa, may I roll up your sleeves?" He said, kneeling down beside her again.

She opened her mouth ready to protest, but a myriad of thoughts ran through her mind. If he lifted her sleeves he would figure out the secret, and she knew things would be changed forever. Change frightened her, for even though her life was lonely and her rights limited, it was stable and she had a comfortable living.

But, what if her life could be better? What if being an invalid of Ellsworth Estate didn't have to be her destiny? And maybe, just maybe...that selfish bit in her, wanted more than anything, to have Holmes' hands on her skin once more.

"You may," she whispered.

He circled his hands around the black cloth of her turtleneck, at the wrist of her right hand, and lifted it up in a quick fashion, like he was pulling a Band-Aid from a wound. When he saw the marks on her skin his face became hard as stone. There, indented in her forearm, were five bruises in the shape of four fingers and a thumb.

"You've been cruelly used," he breathed.

She could no longer look at him.

"Alessa, let me wash off your makeup, please."

"No," she said, her voice cracking, "I can't. All you'll see is the ugliness...that's all you'll see..."

"Why? Why do you say that?"

Out of nowhere anger flared up in her. Anger toward her parents for making her face the way it was, for leaving bruises on her arms for Holmes to figure out the truth...without her ever saying a word about it. She was angry that her life was one of isolation, pain, and now those were the only things Holmes would know her for after he saw. Because perhaps he would soon forget why she was here if he saw the marks. Perhaps he would forget that they were possibly alike, that they could connect. He would also forget that she was still...human. Maybe half-human, but human nonetheless.

"It is written in tales," she said, letting her frustrated tears flow down her cheeks, "that the outcasts, the ugly, are turned away from society. _Beauty and the Beast, The Hunchback of Notr_e _Dame, Faust, The Phantom of the Opera_...they were written in such different times, but the truth remains the same: the old, the ugly, the different in mind are out cast by the good. We are the denied ones, Holmes. I keep to these books because only these characters understand the life of the odd. You were like one of these characters to me. When I read about you in the blogs you made sense. I knew of your struggles, I thought I could understand..." A sob ripped out of her, she clutched her chest, and began rocking back and forth for comfort. "I thought you would understand."

For a while no one said a word or moved a muscle. And then to her amazement, she felt Holmes grip her hands on her chest, and bring them down so that they were resting on her knees. She was so stunned her crying soon stilled. Serenity swept through her body, and she wasn't sure what to say or do.

Then, he said it, "Me too."

She looked at his face. "What?"

"I...I was diagnosed with a spectrum disorder too. I have Asperger's."

He lifted his eyes to hers, and for the very first time, she was able to see his irises, icy blue like the clear crystals falling from the sky during a snow storm in London. Ice...like what one would find on frozen ivy.

She gave a sad, understanding smile, and slid off the chair so she was next to him on the floor. She pressed her forehead to his, still looking into his eyes. And then, she did something daring. Something stupid. Something illogical in this world. But in the galaxy that was literature, it would have made sense...and after all, her books were the only things that made sense in her life.

"And then," she whispered, "she saw that the beast that was once before her, was truly, a prince."

She lifted the back of her hand onto her tear soaked cheeks, and wiped the makeup away, knowingly revealing the scars, fresh cuts, and new bruises on her pale skin. And when he looked at her, and touched her imperfections with his fingertips without hatred or disgust, but with kindness, she moved forward and softly kissed his lips. Suddenly she wasn't afraid of anything anymore. With that kiss, her curse of human disconnect was broken.


	3. Chapter 3

Act Three

Sherlock was astounded. It was not the fact that Alessa was being abused that shocked him so much (as soon as she revealed she wore makeup since the age of nine he was able to puzzle things out quickly) or that she was could socially communicate well despite her autism. After all, there were autistic savants out there...it was just not many of them could comprehend complex emotions like love, hope, and yearning. And Alessa seemed to fall into the latter rare category.

It was clear she had never kissed someone. She had timidly pressed her lips to his, softly at first, before gradually adding pressure. She didn't even have her arms around him, for her hands laid limply in his own, like they were unsure what to do. And he was, in fact, clueless also. For he too had never kissed another.

Sherlock's instincts told him to pull away, to get her flesh out of his personal space. He wanted to pick her up and carry her out of his apartment. He even considered running. But what stopped him was this: her raw affection was comforting to him. On a basic human level it felt good. So he, taking note of what he had seen others do in romantic situations, took his hands out of hers and wrapped his arms around her waist to pull her closer.

Alessa reacted with a slight gasp, her lips parting with his for a moment.

"It's all right," he reassured, "it's okay." He knew he was trying to convince himself as well as her. But he wanted to push through his fear, because if there was one thing he enjoyed more than anything, was finding a result to an action, an experiment. Part of this situation was, indeed, a social experiment to try and understand the emotion building in her and within himself. Maybe this would help him comprehend Watson's need for intimacy too.

Her lips met his again, and soon her arms were around him, mimicking his movements. Things began to escalate. Mouths parted, tongues danced. He felt his stomach churn with anticipation, and he recognized the feeling of the chemical dopamine surging to his brain. Emotional changes were happening. He did feel protective of her, and a bit possessive. But, there was a tenderness underlying all that. There was connection he felt in being understood for she could identify with his oddities and 'get him'. With that connection came sympathy, warmth, and intrigue that stemmed.

In seconds his analytical nature took a shift. He would look back, and realize this moment occurred when her right hand left his back, moved toward his hair, and buried itself within it while she moaned one word, "Holmes."

Rationality gone.

His fingers scurried into her locks and felt her soft waves, and then nestled themselves in the back of her neck. His mouth drug itself form her lips and down to the column of her throat, the vibrations of her breathing and utterances tingling against his skin. He realized how bold his actions were only seconds later, and he worried that she would find this whole affair complicated and too scandalous for her taste. His fearlessness was rewarded by her pulling him closer.

"I want to know your story," she sighed, her vocal incantations humming against his mouth.

He pulled away, being brought out of his physical daze. "What?"

Alessa looked down sheepishly, and then back at him. Her hand reached up to place a palm over a growing red circle on her neck. "You promised me that you'd say if you were like me. So, tell me your story." Her eyes flashed at him. "Please. I gave you my secrets, my first kiss," she closed her eyes, "my first consensual mark on my flesh."

"It's a bruise," he said, trying to regain his intelligence, wherever it was.

"I know. Others call it a hickey. But to me, it means more." She tucked her legs underneath her. "It means you were here. It means you held me for a moment. That you...you didn't pull away when I did the bravest thing I ever did in my life."

He took a deep breath, making an attempt to pull himself together, and stood up. He offered her his hand, helping her stand also, and sat back down in his chair. He motioned for Alessa to do the same.

"My story," he began as she was seated, "is a complicated one, Alessa. It has a secret I've been carrying with me since I was seven. It's been with me for over twenty years. That was when I was diagnosed myself with Asperger's and things weren't like how they are now. Believe it or not, England is accepting of those with metal disabilities. Of course there will always be those, like your parents, who are ignorant. But if you had been in public more you would understand that the world isn't such a terrible place. Sadly my story begins back in the eighties and people were not so tolerant. When I was diagnosed word got around the small village I lived in. I was shunned by adults, taunted by my peers. I thought I was a freak, and perhaps I was, but at age thirteen I found my talent for...expansive learning and deduction. I could memorize facts quickly and keep them there if I so wished it, if I found them relevant. And, just by studying a person, I could tell them their life story. I did this in my later school years to fight back against other students, to exploit them. In middle school I began to spread deductions about my fellow colleagues, even teachers if they treated me unfairly, to have some type of revenge. This continued in high school. I even got a teacher fired, because I was able to learn that she was sleeping with a young tormentor of mine. I sent an anonymous letter and she, and the student, were gone the next week. My family told me what I did was wrong, yet I didn't care. I wasn't actively seeking out this information. I simply _found_ it and projected my findings."

He glanced away from her and sighed.

"Of course, I realize that I was wrong now, for doing what I did. They were children and so was I."

"That was how you coped," Alessa said, "I wish I could have done that. But I'm not smart like you are."

Sherlock chuckled. "You're too humble for your own good, my dear. You're smart, Alessa. You and I, we're just smart in different ways."

"Holmes, why doesn't anyone else know you're autistic? I've looked in other articles online but no one mentioned you having a spectrum disorder and, you just said so yourself, were diagnosed."

He felt his stomach drop. He hadn't wanted her to see his history this far back. Sherlock was beginning to regret even letting her through his front door.

"I can't tell you," he stated.

She sat up in her chair, her green eyes burning into him. "Why?"

"Because someone did something...very illegal to help me years ago. That's why there isn't any record of my diagnosis."

"You promised me the truth."

"I have told you the truth. There are just some things I will omit."

Alessa stood up, pushing the chair back as she did so. "I'm not look like you," she said, "I can't look between the lines and figure these things out! You were able to figure me out, and see all my secrets." She ran her hands along her cheeks that were rough with scars and bruises. He actually flinched watching as her fingertips touched the evidence of her parents' anger. "You may not have clues written on your face, but I DO! I think you owe me a bit of transparency!"

Heat rose to the back of his neck. He did not like how this woman was making him feel. "I owe you _nothing_," he said, "you are the one who came to my home asking for answers to questions. You brought all this upon yourself, I did not."

"You were the one who agreed we'd share our stories."

He angrily stood. "YOU are the one who offered the wager!"

Sherlock looked into her eyes. They were narrowed at him.

"You," she breathed, "are the one who I gave my first kiss too, possibly my only kiss. Holmes I may never be that close to another soul, and I let myself be that way with YOU. It is something I chose to give, for in my life, I have very little choice."

He swallowed. "You didn't have to."

"You tried very little to stop me."

God she was infuriating, unrelenting, borderline egotistical, and (Sherlock had to admit) made some very, very damn good points. But he had a better one.

"You TOOK my first kiss."

Her eyes widened, hearing his sexual confession, but then the corners of her mouth lifted just a bit. "Well then, to take something from the great Sherlock Holmes so blatantly without being stopped...I must be as smart—or maybe—smarter than you."

Sherlock stared at her, stunned by her quick counters. While gazing at her he suddenly realized how truly pretty she was with her wavy brown hair...and those shining, challenge green eyes. Rationality gone.

He closed the space between them quickly and gathered her in his arms. Without another word he crushed his lips into hers, they parted, and soon he could feel the warmth of her breath inside his mouth. Her hands were gripping his hips, running up and down his back, to his stomach and chest...she was fearless.

Sherlock broke the kiss to look down at her.

"I'm sure you are aware that I have an older brother," he hurried, "he had a job with the government right before I was to go to university. He knew it was unlikely somewhere prominent would take someone with autism so he had records tweaked and my childhood doctors paid off, so word of my disorder would never spread. That is my truth and the reason why I don't completely cut off my brother."

He moved his face forward, ready to dive in for a kiss, but she held her hand in between them.

"So," she said with a hint of laughter in her voice, "despite what Watson says in his blogs, you don't completely hate your brother."

"No, I said that is why I don't completely cut off my brother. I still hate him," Sherlock corrected.

"Fair."

She lowered her hand and they were once more clinging to each other. He felt himself move forward, and her back roughly hitting a book shelf. A few novels tumbled off. He didn't even bother to see which one they were.

"Hold on, my phone's buzzing," she said, reaching for her back pocket.

She took her cell out, and flipped it open.

"It's a text from my parents."

"What does it say?" Sherlock asked.

"They won't be home tonight," she said, "they want me to call our butler and maid to come back to the estate to watch over me. They say it might even be two more days before they can come home with the storm."

"Are you going to make that call?"

She closed her phone and tossed it on the chair. "I will do no such thing."

"Do you need to leave to get back home at least?"

She sighed. "Do you want me to?"

"No," he said, "absolutely not." He softly kissed the side of her face. "I don't think Watson will be home tonight, so I have a spare bed."

"You have a bed."

His body stiffened. "What are you implying?"

"I can't say it," she whispered. She gazed at him, pleading. "I don't know how to say it. But you know Holmes. You know what I'm implying."

"You're reckless," he said breathing in sharply. "I am thirteen years older than you. You've only known me for one night."

"No, you've only known me for one night," she corrected, "I have known you for a year and a half."

"There are repercussions for this sort of thing."

"Like what? Getting pregnant?"

_The surgery_, he remembered, _right_.

"Alessa, I'm... ."

"Afraid," she interrupted, "so am I, Holmes. I'm afraid I will walk out of this flat and never have a human connection like this again. I'm afraid that my parents will keep me a prisoner for the rest of my life, because I don't know how to get out. I'm afraid I will never be this close with anyone else again, like how close I am to you. Holmes...I'm terrified that I will leave this place and never feel like how I'm feeling now."

"You don't love me, do you, Alessa?" He said.

She shook her head. "No, I don't love you romantically. Not like what I've seen between people on the streets or in books I've read. But I like you a lot Holmes. I may even love in you a different way, but not like that."

He sighed in relief. "I feel the same. I don't love you in that way. But I think I like you a lot too."

She took his hands. "For me, to be with you...I think that's enough."

He kissed her forehead. Without another word he took the lead, and showed them to a room down the hall. It was a decent sized room, seven by eight feet in diameter. There were two different kinds of wallpaper: one was a toned down yellow color with a fur-de-lis pattern and the other was a kind of rust-red. The room was in neat order and free of clutter, the polar opposite of the parlor. There was only a small chest of drawers, one bookshelf, and a king sized wooden bed with a plump mattress and cream colored bed covers and pillows. Next to the bed was a small in table with a silver desk lap, and above the bed was a deep set in display case that held different types of insects.

"My abode," he said.

She nodded. "It's your place of calm. I can tell by the lack of things."

He put an arm around her waist. "I have a feeling that, that will change, at least for tonight."

"Look, we don't have to do this."

"Do you want to?"

"Yes. Do you?"

Sherlock looked at her, and sighed. "I've only wanted to do this with you, and another from long ago."

"I know," she said, "and it _hasn't_ been as long as that."

"What do you mean?"

She chuckled. "I read Watson's blogs, and even though he protects your personal matters, there are things I've figured out." She squeezed his hand. "Yet...there are things that shouldn't be mentioned tonight."

"Agreed," he said, "so how does one begin _this_?"

"Well from what I've read throughout the years, and heard from whispers around the estate, it begins like this."

And Alessa walked over and shut Sherlock's door.


	4. Chapter 4

Act Four

"Knight to E5."

Holmes looked at Alessa as she moved her chess piece, careful to not let the uneven surface of the mattress tilt the chess board.

"I think you should rethink that," he said.

Alessa looked up at him, feeling a smile tease at her face. "No, I think I'm doing the right thing."

They couldn't do it. Three hours ago, as Alessa had closed the door to his bedroom, anxiety got the best of her. She had tried to shake it off as she walked back over to him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and threw herself into kissing him. But as he backed them toward the bed her mind was screaming.

"I can't do this," she gasped, almost pushing him away, "I'm so sorry Holmes, I just can't."

To her surprise he let go of her and collapsed on the mattress. "Oh thank God, me too."

She couldn't help but smile as she laid down too and took his hand.

"I guess we're just not very...social in that way," she said.

He shrugged. "I believe you may be to a larger degree than I am, but we're not there yet."

"No," Alessa chuckled, "no we're not."

And that was what lead her to spy the chess board on the shelf, and suggest they play a game or two.

He had won the first game, the second they called a draw after Alessa's stomach growled loudly. Dinner was needed. Holmes happened to have some fruit in the fridge, remnants of a bag of carrots, and cheese. He found some crackers, made a cheese, veggie, and fruit plate and brought that into the bedroom. A half empty plate later they were duking it out with the last few rounds of a third chess game.

He made his move, and peered over at her.

"I told you that wasn't a good idea," he said.

"You're right," she sighed, "YOURS wasn't."

She reached for her knight on the other side of the board, and with a final move, finished him off.

"Check mate."

He closed his eyes, recounting her final move, and smirked.

"You're technique was to distract me," he said, "you had me looking at a bigger picture... ."

"And you forgot the details."

"My dear, I am always about details. After all," he reached into his pocket then, and amazingly, pulled out her king chess piece, "I don't think you saw that coming."

She looked down at the board to see her piece was definitely gone from the board.

"You sneak!"

"It was just a bit slight of hand," he said, "and you think I don't pay attention to details."

Without a warning she grabbed a pawn from the board, and playfully chucked it at him. "Pawn to across the bed!"

It hit his right shoulder, and he threw the queen at her. "Queen to stubborn girl!"

"King to distracted moron!"

"Bishop to wild woman!"

Chess pieces were flying, and finally she leapt from her spot to tackle him. He fell back against the pillows, and she nuzzled her head into his shoulder, her insides feeling like they were full of light and air. Holmes wrapped his arms around her waist, and flipped her so that she was at his side. She laughed, but soon her joyful sounds were smothered by his kiss.

And in that moment, she realized that this was probably the happiest evening she had ever had in her life. She wondered, if this simple evening was so wonderful, what could life possibly be like with her freedom?

As though he could read her mind, he said, "Don't go back. Please, don't go back to that place."

A lump rose in her throat, and she hugged him tight. "Holmes, where am I supposed to go?"

"I can offer you temporary asylum here. I'd have to ask you to be careful, because I do have an enemy that is very dangerous, but until you find other arrangements... ."

"Holmes no. I don't know how long it would take me to find another place, and I don't want to burden you or Watson. You have to understand that my family will not give me a pound of my own, and I virtually am friendless in the world."

"No," he said, "you do have two friends."

"What do you mean?"

He placed a hand on her cheek. "You have me and Watson."

"But, Watson doesn't know me."

"If I say you're a friend of mine then he will be."

Tears came to her eyes. "Holmes thank you. Your kindness means a lot to me, truly. But I want to leave on my own. I want to support myself without having to rely on another. Please understand. I will promise you this: I will find a way out. Someday, somehow."

Holmes let out a deep breath and turned away from her. "It's late. We should probably sleep."

"Holmes..."

"No more for tonight. Now," he stood, "I'm going to Mrs. Hudson, the landlady of these flats. Perhaps she has some pajamas she can spare for you."

"You don't need to bother her."

"It's all right." He walked over to the dresser and lifted out from the top drawer a dark blue silk robe with subtle navy pinstripes on it. "If you want to shower while I'm gone the bath is simply down the hall to your right. Feel free to wear this if you're out before I'm back."

She nodded. "Thank you."

He handed her the robe, and without another word, left the room. Seconds later Alessa heard the front door to the flat close, and it was then she picked up the robe. She felt it's smooth, slick surface and held it close to feel it on her face. She took a deep breath and soon realized that the husky scent that came from it was his own.

Before getting a shower she picked up the chess pieces, put the game away, and then took the plate back to the kitchen. She stood in front of the fridge, and sighed. She didn't know what she would find within, knowing that unexpected things could be in there thanks to Watson's blogs, so she opened the door with her eyes closed and simply shoved the plate on the nearest shelf. When the fridge was no longer opened she opened her eyes again and smiled. Some mysteries, after all, were left unknown.

She made her way to the bathroom, which was amazingly clean for a bachelor's place, and turned on the shower. She stripped, but before getting into the tub, her reflection in the bathroom mirror caught her eye. On her neck was a small, growing bruise. A testament to that night's release.

Sherlock knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door, feeling surprisingly guilty for lying to Alessa. No, he wasn't visiting Mrs. Hudson at half past midnight just to get her pajamas. He was here because he needed help helping Alessa.

The door opened, and a slightly sleepy Mrs. Hudson stood in his view. She was wearing her favorite purple terry cloth robe, with white house slippers on her feet. Her face was free of her usual makeup, and her short red hair was disheveled.

"Mrs. Hudson Alessa Ellsworth has come to my flat on this night and I need your help," he said.

Sherlock noticed her tired eyes brighten when he said Alessa's name.

"Sherlock, what's going on? I swear you said the name... ."

"Alessa Ellsworth."

She stepped aside, letting him enter her apartment. "What have you gotten yourself into this time dear? After all, you can't mean you've found the Lost Ellsworth Daughter."

"I didn't get myself into anything," he said, sitting down on her living room couch, "she just showed up this evening. By the way her name isn't the Lost Daughter, it's Alessa. I'm afraid you read the tabloids way too much Mrs. Hudson."

"Well hold on, why'd she come to your apartment?"

"She...I can't get into it. All I can tell you is that she needs help to leave her family's home, and I was wondering if that friend of yours was still renting apartments on the west side."

"The one who you helped solve her brother's murder? Yes I believe she is still in the business."

"Good, because I need to use that favor she offered me."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him warily. "You've never taken a favor from anyone you've helped before, Sherlock. What is going on?"

He pushed his hair back, letting out a deep breath. "Alessa is in a lot of trouble, Mrs. Hudson. She needs a place to go and start her life anew, where her family can't find her."

"Why does she want to leave her family?"

Sherlock looked her dead in the eye. "She is autistic Mrs. Hudson, and her family is full of fools that don't understand. She is being abused, and they will not let her leave the estate and she can't escape on her own for lack of money. She needs somewhere to stay until she can get on her feet."

Her eyes widened, and she stood up. She quickly walked into the kitchen, grabbed her cell phone from the counter, and scrolled through the contacts list. She found the number of her friend, and then tossed the phone to Sherlock.

"Here's the number," she said, "I think Lacey will help you. I'm sure she can offer an apartment to Alessa for a few months without... ."

"I'll take care of the rent," he interrupted while copying the number in his phone, "I need her secrecy, that's all." He stood, and walked over to hand the phone back to Mrs. Hudson. "Thank you."

"Does she need anything else?"

He smiled. "Some pajamas would be nice."

Alessa came out of the bathroom with Holmes' robe tied closed around her. Her brown hair was now a wet streaking mess down her shoulders and her face was completely free of makeup. The scars and bruises were prominent thanks to the fading flush from her face. She walked into the parlor, her clothes neatly folded under her arm, and not knowing where else to put them she laid them on the chair with her trench coat hanging on the back of it.

At that moment the front door opened, and she turned toward the sound. Soon Holmes walked into her view, with a dark red night gown slung over his arm and his phone in his hand. He was peering down at it, as though studying a message.

"Alessa," he called, "I have your... ."

That was when he looked up, turned, and saw her only in his robe.

"You're done with the shower," he said, his voice soft.

"Yeah," she acknowledged, "I don't like the water hitting my face. I usually take baths."

"I understand."

She moved toward him and took the night gown. "Thank you for fetching me one of these."

"I almost wish I hadn't. You look...interesting in my robe."

Alessa glanced down, heat burning her cheeks. "Thanks. I've always thought you were handsome, Holmes."

He placed his fingertips on the knuckles of her hand that held the robe. "Shall we go to bed, Alessa?"

She swallowed. "My God, yes."

Alessa stayed with Holmes for the next two and a half days. The first morning she woke up beside him; snow was still softly falling from sky, and no progress on the roads had been made. They practically lived in his room. They read together, played Chess, told their life stories in fragmented memories and suddenly remembered events. They ate irregularly. Her clothes made a home for themselves on the parlor chair for she made his oversized shirts, the night gown, and his robe her garments for their days. After that first, sweet day the night came and they did things that she wondered if she would ever do with another man. Later she woke in the dark to find Holmes holding her while she cried during nightmares of raining fists and gaping wounds that never stopped bleeding.

On the second day Watson fought his way through the snowy wasteland home. Alessa never knew how he reacted to seeing her clothes on the chair, for she was too shy to meet him under the circumstances, and Holmes was the one to leave the room briefly and explain her situation. She heard through the door fragments of conversation that included the phrases "tail" (from Watson she assumed), "I was wrong about my observations" (Holmes), and "I'll buy you a drink later" (Watson or Holmes, she wasn't sure). But she was able to decide that Watson was very nice, for he greeted her through the door in a gentle manner, and said she was welcomed to anything she wanted in their flat. When Holmes came back into his room they spent the day talking quietly, and then night came with more unknown pleasures.

The third day rolled along, and she woke up to Holmes in the final process of getting dressed with buttoning his shirt. It was day break she could see by the light streaming under the door.

"Holmes," she murmured rubbing her eyes, "what's going on?"

"Watson woke me this morning," he said. "Your parents texted you a few minutes ago. They will be home soon. We need to get you home safe."

She felt all the color drain from her face. "So I say goodbye to Eden."

He looked down at her solemnly. "Alessa," he began, moving toward the dresser, "I want you to have this." He lifted a manila envelope from the top drawer, and handed it to her.

"What IS this?" She asked.

He sat down next to her on the bed. "Don't ask anything, just let me explain. I need you to listen closely to me, all right? I can only say this once, because I think as of now my room isn't bugged."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"Don't say anything, please," he stated, "I told you, I have a dangerous enemy who is after me. He will hunt me until I am dead, and that is why I can't allow you to stay here. I have debated it with Watson and we both agreed it would be too dangerous. As of right now we don't think this person knows that you are here and that you are connected to me, but we want to keep it that way. So know this: things are going to be changing with me soon, Alessa. I can't say any more than that, but that is why I want you to accept these things in this envelope, because I won't need them soon. In here is a letter, money, and a phone number. The phone number is for a woman named Lacey Gibbs. She owns some flats on the West Side, and you are to go there at whatever point you can escape your parents. She says that she will offer you a place to stay for free while you are building a life for yourself. Now, that is what the money is for. You are to use that money to help you out until you can get a job. There is only 5,000 pounds so be frugal..."

"Did you say...?"

"Yes I did. It sounds like a lot but it isn't as much as you think. Especially since the letter is a letter to London University. That is where you will be taking classes for your degree in Library Sciences."

Tears came to her eyes. "No, there's no way..."

"Some powerful people there owe me a favor. Just show the letter to the registration offices and everything will be taken care of."

She clutched the envelope to her chest. "Thank you Holmes. Thank you..."

He said nothing for a while. "Just get dressed dear," he whispered. And then he left the room.

They walked down London, passed the snowbanks on the side of the street, and an hour after their conversation she was in front of the estate. She entered the security code in the keypad that was attached to the gate of the expansive place.

"Do you want to come in with me for a moment?" She asked Holmes, looking at his tall figure encased in his own trench.

He shook his head. "No. I have to be swift. I don't know when your family will arrive, or if anyone is watching."

She nodded. "I see." She placed her hand over waist, outside of the inner pocket that held the envelope...her treasure trove for freedom. "So how do we say goodbye?"

Holmes sighed. "I don't know. But...I remembered something."

He untied his signature black scarf from around his neck, the article that Alessa recognized from so many pictures, and he placed it on her. "You can't wear a trench like that without a scarf."

She touched the fabric with her fingertips, and tears began to run down her face. "Thank you, thank you for everything."

He looked down, his eyes blinking rapidly, as though to hide tears. "Goodbye Alessa."

"Goodbye Holmes."

Before he could protest she lifted her face to kiss him one more time. "I love you, my friend," she said.

Without another word she ran from him, closing the gate behind her, and flew across the grounds of the Ellsworth Estate. She decided, as she ran that space between Sherlock and her prison, that this was the last time she would ever enter this place ever again. In a week she would leave the estate forever, go to Lacey Gibbs' apartments, and make a new life for herself. All of this she would do just in time to register for winter/spring classes at London University...timing it so she could watch herself be reborn as the world would be coming back to life again also.


	5. Encore

Encore

_Five Months Later_

Alessa had a small studio apartment, was working her ass off in the computer lab and library at her school, and was taking eighteen hours of classes at the university.

And she was having the best time of her life.

Life after Holmes had been one of opportunity and enlightenment. Between taking classes she worked, with only a day or two off to get schoolwork done. She was exhausted at the end of many days, but her tiredness told her that she was at last doing something with her life. She even was trying to become more social.

Alessa had joined a Sherlock fan club that was made up of mostly people from her college. They met at the local coffee shop, _Moon Dollar_, and would be there from six until closing to talk about the great detective and his in-house blogger. But they would also talk about current events and their own lives, and Alessa came to consider these people as her friends.

There was Kelli the political science major who's other passion was art, Andrew who wanted to be a chief and was tremendously funny, Amber who was a bit shy but when out spoken said interesting things, and Natasha who was from America but had great disdain for her home country.

All of them were a bit strange, but they accepted her for who she was. She didn't tell them that her last name was Ellsworth, or about her parents, yet she still felt free to talk to them about her autism. Every week this little group met and gathered to share stories of Sherlock and news of the week. However, whenever they talked about "fan encounters" with the Holmes—Alessa kept quiet. She knew her time with him had been sacred, and nothing would taint it.

Only one knew of her night with Holmes and this man had been one of the biggest changes in her life.

Marcus Fawkes had come into her life shortly after she started classes at uni. She had found a routine, coming into _Moon Dollar_ after work or class. Every time she ordered a mocha caramel cappuccino to drink while she read a textbook or a work of fiction of her own choosing. On her first day in the coffee shop Marcus had been the handsome barista boy behind the counter, with a warm smile that matched his golden brown eyes. His dark skin only made his smile whiter. The first day they talked briefly, and as time went on, they grew to know each other more. He was two years older than her and was an accounting major with a love for theater. He came from a well off family who wanted him to pay for his own college. He was getting by without debt thanks to "scholarships and a prayer" as he put it. He normally was very shy himself, but when he would talk with people from behind the counter, he found there was something safe in chatting behind a cash register.

During his break he would sit next to Alessa and ask her what she was reading, and they would continue their discussion. Two months later, after they first met, she came to the coffee shop at her regular time, and found her drink all ready made and placed at her usual table. A small square of paper was folded up next to it, only bearing her name. She opened it, and found the words:

_Alessa,_

_There is a poet_ry_ event next Tuesday evening at the uni library. I would love to treat you to that and dinner. Would you be my date?_

_~Marcus _

She looked over at him behind the cash register, taking note that he was in nice jeans, a dark polo, and a page boy cap. Clearly, he was trying to impress her.

"Yes," Alessa said.

They began to date. They studied together when they could, went to book readings, and Marcus even braved a few of her Sherlock fan club meetings. It was after one of those meetings, four months into their relationship, that she went home with him for the first time.

As they were making out on the couch, he pushed her hair back, kissed her softly, and asked her playfully if a man had ever kissed her as good as he was kissing her now. Alessa was perplexed by the question, unsure if it was appropriate to tell the truth or not. He saw her confusion, and knowing of her autism, tried to calm her. She could tell the truth if she wanted, but if not, he wouldn't mind.

Tears came to her eyes as she thought about Holmes, and she didn't know why.

"Honey, are you okay?" Marcus asked.

She let out a sob and buried her face in her hands.

"I can only tell you if you swear me to secrecy," she cried.

"Of course!" He said, "Alessa, I want you to know you can be open with me."

So she told him the truth. It took her an hour to say it all, the abuse she took from her parents, how she ended up at Holmes's apartment, the days she spent there...

At the end of her story she felt exposed, naked in a way.

"I know it sounds odd," she said awkwardly, "and you may not believe me. But please...please-"

Marcus sighed, the truth still sinking in."It's a lot to take in, Alessa," he said carefully. "You're the Lost Ellsworth Daughter and...my God your first...your first was with..."

A sob rose to her throat. "I shouldn't have told! What have I done? I, I'm sorry. It was all so wonderful and I-" She grabbed her purse and stood to leave. "Marcus I'm sorry."

"No, Alessa." He stood and gently grabbed her hand. "This is who you are. I know that this is hard for you to talk about. Like...my God. What your parents did. If the press knew...but they won't know. That would upset you." He pulled her to his chest. "Give me a bit to process this. It's a lot of information, okay?"

She nodded, burying her face in his shoulder. "Okay."

He accepted it, believed her words, and kept her secret. Their relationship continued, and they became a couple. It all was going so well for Alessa.

And then on a Saturday evening her world shattered.

Alessa was running to the coffee shop. It was a brisk evening, and she could see her breath in the evening as she ran. It was drizzling out, and a few times she almost slipped on the concrete. On that day she wore her tench coat and a familiar, dark scarf that circled around her neck like a hug from a familiar friend. She was thirty minutes late to the Sherlock fan meeting, thanks to an over zealous lecture from a professor, and once class was dismissed she pounced into action. She gathered her stuff and bolted from the building—her stomach churning at the thought of being late to a meeting.

She finally burst through the doors of the coffee house, and saw her friends gathered in front of a lap top. Marcus was with them, and turned upon seeing her.

"Lovely," he said, "I need to talk with you outside-"

"Marcus I'm all ready late," she said, moving past him to set her stuff down on an empty chair. She didn't pick up on his concerned tone. "I don't-"

"Babe, please wait."

She gently touched his shoulder in a loving but, "it can wait" manner, and looked over at the laptop with her friends.

"Sorry I'm late," she said. "What's up?"

Kelli turned to her. "Oh my God," Kelli uttered, "you don't know."

That was when Alessa noticed the tears in Kelli eyes, and that Andrew, Natasha, and Amber were holding hands with concerned looks on their faces. "What's going on?" She asked.

Andrew swallowed, looking over at her. "Alessa—there are reports that Sherlock committed suicide."

Her stomach dropped, and her vision narrowed at him. "What?" She breathed.

"Sweetie-" Marcus said, reaching for her to gently take her shoulders. "There are reports he jumped off a building. They don't know what happened, and they don't know if it's true. There are so many conflicting reports coming in. Really we don't know anything."

"Oh God," Natasha gasped, a hand flying to her mouth, "guys—BBC has something!"

They all gathered closer around the laptop, and Amber turned the volume up. A young female reporter was looking directly into the camera.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it seems more news on Sherlock Holmes has at last arrived." There was a pause from her, as though she was making sure what she was hearing in her ear piece was right, and she continued. "It has been confirmed that Sherlock Holmes is the male that jumped from the roof top of St. Bartholomew's Hospital and that he indeed did pass away..."

Alessa heard nothing else. The world seemed to tip off at that point, and everything feel silent.

_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead..._

_(I think I made you up inside my head)_

_The stars go waltzing out in blue and red_

_And arbitrary blackness gallops in!_

_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead._

_I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed_

_And sung me moon-struck,_

_kissed me quite insane_

_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

_God topples from the sky_

_hell's fires fade;_

_Exit seraphim and Satan's men:_

_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. _

She heard herself scream, her knees buckled underneath her, and she fell. She felt strong arms catch her, Marcus's arms it had to be—she knew those arms well. But another's arms came to her mind. Strong arms, but more slender and pale white. Arms that pulled her into a slim yet muscled chest and stomach; a torso that would move against her as her hands reached out to pull brown hair back as she saw God for the first time. She remembered those arms and body that held her as she looked up and saw beautiful pupils and sharp cheekbones—Holmes. Why was it all coming back now? Why were such memories being re-birthed in an hour of death?

Everyone else was crying too, but her reaction was one of the most pure and deep mourning. Marcus wrapped an arm around her, and they left the coffee shop with sullen nods toward the rest of the group. She sobbed as Marcus lead her to his car, and simply drove her back to his apartment. He murmured comforting words to her, she knew by his soft and gentle voice they had to be, but she knew nothing more.

Holmes was dead and she felt something in her die too.

Marcus took her back to her apartment, and not wanting her to be alone, he slept with her on the couch that night. The hours passed in a blur. She remembered him making some type of soup and tea for her, but that was it. She curled up close to him, keeping her trench and scarf nearby on a chair. She looked at it longingly, as though he might materialize in the chair because it was there. That night Marcus stood, grabbed the scarf from the chair, and gave it to her as they were settling down to sleep.

"I think you should have this tonight," he said, handing it to her.

She nodded silently, but her eyes looked up softly at him in thanks. That night they slept in each others arms, yet a remnant of _him _was nearby.

Alessa knew logically that Marcus had a life and couldn't be with her 24/7, so she got him to leave the early afternoon the next day. She needed to be alone, she explained, to think things through. He left, and she was in the apartment with only her and her emotions. The feeling felt crushing and empty, all at the same time.

She slept in her own bed, this time the scarf on her pillow. For a while she slept, in hopes of resting for her morning classes, but at two in the morning she awoke. She shivered, as though a cold wind moved through the room. She pulled the covers up...but they didn't feel right. The top felt rough. Coldness blew across the room again, and she realized that it was a breeze. She turned to see her bedroom window was open.

She sighed, and stood. She didn't remember opening it, but no matter. She couldn't remember a lot of things of the past two days. She walked over to shut it, but in the light of the moon upon her bed, she saw what the rough material was.

There, laying on top like a cover, was a familiar black trench coat.

Her heart stopped in her chest, and she rubbed her eyes to see if she was really seeing what was in front of her. She was.

She closed the window, and bolted over to the coat. She picked it up, tears falling from her eyes, and she held it to her chest.

"Holmes," she uttered, "Holmes..."

She laid down, and closed her eyes. She brought the coat close to her face and breathed in. There it was that musky, almost cedar like smell that she remembered from many, many nights ago. As she held that coat close she noticed that the smell was almost new a few moments later, fresh was the right word. And then she felt the mattress lower on her right side, and her stomach seemed to jump into her throat.

If this was a dream-she didn't care. She said nothing, not wanting to turn around and find all this wasn't real. Alessa said nothing, but only pulled the coat over her and inched closer to the lowered side of the mattress. She closed her eyes, and for a while, tried to lull herself into relaxation. Nearing the world of sleep she thought she felt the pressure of an arm circle her waist. And then...a deep, familiar voice seemed to speak from the crevices of her mind:

"_Do not stand at my grave and weep,_

_I am not there; I do not sleep._

_I am a thousand winds that blow,_

_I am the diamond glints on snow,_

_I am the sun on ripened grain,_

_I am the gentle autumn rain._

_When you awaken in the morning's hush_

_I am the swift uplifting rush_

_Or quiet birds in circling flight._

_I am the soft starlight of the night. _

_Do not stand at my grave and cry,_

_I am not there; I did not die." _

She listened to the words, and like a gentle lullaby, they lured her into a deep rest.

Alessa woke the next morning, with the sun on her face and the first warm breeze of spring entering her bedroom. She sat up, turned, and found herself looking at the once more opened window. And then, smiling knowingly, she looked down at her coverings, it being only a black trench coat.

_Fin_


End file.
